Working Title
by of brimstone
Summary: A more in-depth look into the pasts of our favorite lovebirds and the interesting twists of fate that brought them together.


**Summary:** A more in-depth look into the pasts of our favorite lovebirds and the interesting twists of fate that brought them together.

**Disclaimer:** No owning of the Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl for me, thank you. I'm not making any money off of this, either. It's not even that great, I'm sure.

**Author's Note:** First fic. Obviously taken some liberties regarding names and all that. Forgive me, heh. Also, reviews are appreciated. Don't hold back.

_Chapter One: A Delicate Swann_

The Swann name hadn't always been highly regarded, nor had it always held wealth to it. There had been many a time that the household table lay bare at supper. There were no grand mansions, with fine draperies and servants and a large flower garden that smelled of roses in spring and apple blossoms in summer. The Swann children did not wear the finest garments that England had to offer, nor did they even dream of possessing (one might shudder to think) shoes. Education was unheard of, and etiquette a thing of wild fancy, like something out of a whimsical novel for children. There were no grandiose celebrations to attend. No pleasantries to fake. No name dropping or gossiping or waltzing luxuriously in a ballroom dripping with fine fabrics and expensive décor.

But Weatherby Swann had forgotten all of that. To him, there were these things, and there always had been. He had been born into wealth, into nobility, as his father had before him, and his father's father before him. The tradition had become to forget that there was poverty – to eliminate humble beginnings and pretend that "Swann" had always been a distinguished, affluent title.

It was this reason – his title, his _importance_ – that Weatherby James Phillip Swann had been allowed the hand of Anastasia Lucille Lancaster Worthington.

The Lancaster Worthington surname, like Swann, was esteemed. It sported good genes and a mountain of riches, as well as properties in all territories in England, Ireland, and some in France. Some had gone to the North Continent to be Governors or serve as doctors. Most were in Europe, however, spending their days throwing extravagant parties and talking to this ambassador and that about God knows what and the weather.

Despite the wonderful background of this well-bred and prosperous lot, though, the Lancaster Worthington name was doomed. It had, with the birth of Anastasia, failed to produce a male heir.

The creation of a union was in order to save the descendents of this line. And so Anastasia Lucille Lancaster Worthington became Anastasia Lucille Lancaster Worthington Swann. It was hoped that the couple would perhaps be able to salvage the strong reputation of both names with a successor to carry them on and display them proudly as he created an entirely new line of descendants. It was hoped that neither name would die with this next generation. But alas, it was not a boy who inherited such a name, but a girl.

Elizabeth Antoinette Lancaster Worthington Swann. A mouthful, of course, but it was what both families had agreed on (the members that were not upset with the babe's gender, that was). She would carry the name for as long as she could, and then it would be her betrothed's choice to let her keep it or not. They would all just have to make sure that she married well.

The only one who seemed to have a problem with this, though, was Weatherby. He cherished his daughter, and wanted to see her marry for love. Not for the sake of a name. He had been lucky to be so in love with Anastasia, but he was well aware that not every marriage of such nature was the choice of both participants. With such demanding forefathers, though, how was a man ever to let his opinion – and decision – be known? He was not a particularly outspoken man, nor was he even a bit argumentative. Weatherby had always been collected and composed, and never did speak out of turn.

So it was, in some ways, lucky that he was offered to become the Governor of a new colony developing in Jamaica. He could escape the demands of this overbearing society with his wife and daughter, and Elizabeth would never have to know the disappointment of her grandparents. She was close to finishing her primary schooling by the time it had come to pass; Weatherby supposed that they would leave upon her completion.

Of course, he hadn't counted on Anastasia falling ill.

The doctors claimed it was pneumonia. The year's winter had been a harsh one, and come springtime, many (not just the Swann family) were discovering loss.

Elizabeth could not remember the last time she woke with such unease. It felt as if something had crawled into her stomach during the night, constricting and twisting her insides so that she was most uncomfortable when she awoke. Her palms were clammy and cold, her breathing faint. A terrible thing had happened, she knew – but she could not, for the life of her, figure out what it was.

The thick curtain that had been pulled over the French doors on the far side of her bedroom could not hold back the light that crept beneath it. Elizabeth, noticing this, stood. The disquiet stubbornly settled in her chest, and she stepped to the curtain to allow her room to be flooded with sunlight. Feeling some of that anxiety leave her like the darkness left the room, she breathed a light, relieved sort of sigh and threw open the doors.

It did not seem like the sort of day that something awful would happen. The sun had risen, as per usual, and was shining almost merrily upon the large flower garden below her balcony. There were miles and miles of brilliant, clear sky, bright blue and dotted with only a few clouds. An unusually warm breeze swept up her hair and caressed her cheeks. A cornucopia of fragrances assaulted her, reassuring her and ridding her of the rest of her worry. These were the smells of a thousand or more flowers – how could anything possibly go wrong today? And the birds! They had all returned, it seemed, overnight. Come today, she was greeted with a symphony of chirping and singing, all calling to her.

"Hello, Elizabeth!" one said. And another, "Good morning!"

The silly girl was so lost in her immediate daydream that she hadn't heard her father approach.

"Elizabeth," said Weatherby wearily, laying his hand on her shoulder.

His tone suggested that all was not well. The unease she had been feeling came rushing back to her as she turned to face him. Eyes red. Puffy. Swollen. He had been crying. His clothes wrinkled. Old. He had worn them yesterday. Why had be not bothered to change? No magnificent, pompous wig. Shirt unbuttoned, half-tucked. Messy. Disheveled. "Father?"

The worry in her voice was not hidden like he had his grief.

"Elizabeth, come and sit with me. I have something I must tell you," he said, using the hand that still gripped her shoulder to lead her back to her bed. He sat slowly, as if his bones ached with every movement, and then reached beside him to pat the empty spot next to him.

She sat obediently, bewildered by his behavior. Elizabeth had never seen her father quite so upset. "What is it, Papa?" she asked, concern overriding her lessons. A father was to be called "father." "Papa" was a word used by tiny children and those with little education to their names. Her small hand reached and took his in a tight grip.

Weatherby sat for a moment, trying to collect all of his thoughts. How would he tell her? How _did_ one tell his daughter that their mother was dead? "I.. Elizabeth," he started, his voice gentle, "Your mother has been very ill for quite a while, now."

"Yes," said the little girl, turning soft, still-innocent brown eyes to her father. She was not too naïve to realize, however, where this conversation would end.

He saw that in her face – in those eyes that had begun to well with tears. "Your mother, she.. She could not be expected to stay on this Earth with us much longer, darling. She's.. gone to a place where she is no longer suffering. She's living with God now, Elizabeth. He does not allow good people to suffer long."

She was already crying by the time he had called her "darling." Her mother. Gone. Forever. To be with God, and not with her. "I don't want her to go, Papa," she told him, burying her face deep within his chest as she sobbed. "I want her to stay here, with us. Why can't she stay with us, Papa?"

All Weatherby could do was hold her tightly and murmur soothing, reassuring things. "It's better, Elizabeth. She's in a better place, now. She's no longer sick or in pain. It's better."

After some time, Elizabeth's tears dried (as Weatherby's had hours before), and she sat, cuddling close to her father. "You will always have me," promised the nobleman, pulling his daughter back and cupping her cheeks with a very serious air. "And I will always have you, darling. We will always have each other." She nodded, and rested her cheek against his chest when he let her go.

The pair sat for a time together, huddled like scared refugees, in silence, simply listening to the birds call their condolences through the open doors before them. When the room was dark again, it seemed that the spell that had settled over them was broken, and each moved as if they had not in years. Weatherby lit a candle. Elizabeth slipped back into bed.

"We will still be sailing to Port Royal," he told her quietly, placing the candleholder by her bedside. "A month. That will give you time to decide which things to take with you and which to leave here. And you'll be finished with your schooling."

"But I want to stay!" his daughter protested, the tears returning. "This is our home, Papa! Why must we move?"

"I've already accepted this position as Governor, darling. I am needed." He sat himself at her side, brushing away her tears with the pad of his thumb. "Lieutenant Norrington will be traveling with us," he offered, as if that would be something to bargain with.

"Lieutenant Norrington is stuffy and boring," Elizabeth replied, much to her father's chagrin.

"Elizabeth," he warned. She fell silent at his mild reproach, pulling her blanket up to her chin. He sighed, and drew his knuckles gently over her cheek. "It will be difficult, I know. But we will have one another, won't we?" She nodded, and he smiled softly.

He bent and kissed her forehead, bidding her a good night. So much for mourning.

But Elizabeth could not seem to sleep. After hours of tossing and turning in those fine silk sheets, she decided that she might try to read something. Reading put her to sleep sometimes – why not try it now, when she really needed it? Lighting her candle, she crept down the hall and to the library.

It did not matter which book she picked. Her fingers traced lazily over the worn spines of old, dusty tomes, and she counted to eleven. One number for each spine. Eleven for her age. The eleventh book from her point of origin was pulled off of its shelf, and she looked it over. Scrutinized it. There was no title. The cover was brown, tough leather. Curious as to what it held within its pages, Elizabeth opened it.

_The history of piracy dates back more than 2000 years, but its accurate account depends on the actual meaning of the word 'pirate.'_


End file.
